Cosmic Love

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This is the story of two iridescent lovers,
Perfectly aligned under night’s cover.
Forbidden romance, heated desire
Lit by the sun and his magnificent fire.

Chained to their duties, forevermore
Never can they meet, bound to the shore.
Eternally enchanted by the moon’s silver trance
Allowed however, just a second’s glance.

Twice a year they are allowed to meet
In an eclipse that marks a passionate feat.
Moments together, love worthy of divinity
Wild adoration, lasts for infinity.

Waves of space rejoice at their cosmic union
Blend of Fire and Ice, the perfect fusion.
Shooting Stars a sign of their harmony
Supernovas claiming death with cacophony.

Exposed

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Adorn the mask, hide your flesh,

This is the night, put on your dress.

Long flowing gowns of colors unlimited,

Dabbed with uncanny smears of scarlet.

A day to live as the monstrosities in the world,

Time to be one of the ghouls, terrors unfurled.

Roam about door after door, demanding candied sweets,

Maybe to appease the monster under the sheets.

Not the fabric that makes one horrifying and forlorn,

But the monster hidden underneath the layers of flesh and bone.

Halloween is a night different from the rest,

For we accept our roles as creatures, infest.

While the rest of the year we are truly human,

Masks of false pretense, veiling what is truly inhuman.

Writer’s Dissolution

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Words and syllables spun of eloquent vocabulary,
Impellent thinking leads to an intangible slurry.
Calm your mind and the words will follow,
Weaving them into feelings, anything but shallow.

Wounded interior and a scarred soul,
Pain and Sadness resonating from my core.
Elaborate language your only remedy,
Fraudulent verbs my only clarity.

Geniuses we are not, just skilled at weaving,
A necessary sin to prevent sanity from leaving.
You believe us writers to be truly talented,
When all we have is a psyche that is multifaceted.

Commit this crime of passion we must,
Or crippled, we’ll be lying in the dust.
Our words, nothing but emotions of nature,
So when we die, we shall be immortalized on paper.

Writers write for they are egomaniacs,
A fancy poem our soul’s aphrodisiac.
Spinning words, the most heinous temptation,
Desperation for eternity our only salvation.